


Suffocating

by sammiewilson



Category: Black Widow (Comics), Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, Winter Soldier (Comics)
Genre: F/M, Killing Eve AU, also unfortunately, buckynat - Freeform, but it's a short fic, but more mental stability, kind of, less hot lesbians, so what can I say, unfortunately, winterwidow - Freeform, you know with the assassin and secret agent stuff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-27
Updated: 2019-05-27
Packaged: 2020-03-20 11:40:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18991930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sammiewilson/pseuds/sammiewilson
Summary: Tumblr prompt:“That took my breath away.”“Good. I aim to suffocate.”...Agent James Barnes has dedicated his life to tracking down psychopaths and serial killers and putting them behind bars, but when a possibly psychopathic, definitely beautiful assassin asks for his help, how can he say no?





	Suffocating

Bucky had been through… well, several tough situations during his career as CIA agent.

He had been captured by the Russians two years ago—tortured and maimed, ending with the acquisition of a shiny, state of the art prosthetic arm, courtesy of Tony Stark.

Then there was the issue with Zemo’s attack on the CIA itself, which hinged greatly upon his framing of Bucky as the bomber that was targeting CIA operatives and their families.

And of course, there were countless other instances where Steve dragged him into trouble, both during their adolescence, during their time in Afghanistan, and even now, when Steve was in the FBI.

But never before had Bucky felt _this_ monumentally screwed.

He wasn’t letting that show though. For all _she_ could tell, he got kidnapped by beautiful, potentially psychopathic assassins every day.

He was suave, he was cool, he was in control. And he could only hope that it bothered her—how _unbothered_ he was.

Not that he could tell either way. She was just as cold and unaffected as she stared out the windshield, one hand held firmly on the steering wheel, the other pressing a gun into his side.

Bucky decided that just wouldn’t do. So, he did what he does best: annoy.

“Are we there yet?”

And _finally_ , the mask cracked, though the slight twitching of her cheek would have gone unnoticed by anyone who hadn’t spent the last three hours analyzing her face.

“Does it _look_ like we’re there?” she bites out through gritted teeth, eyes never once leaving the road, despite them being the only car around for miles.

Bucky shrugs, noting how the motion did nothing to dislodge the gun she held to him. Her grip was tight, unyielding; he would be more concerned about that if he thought he would have a chance of escaping even _if_ he could get control of the gun. As it was, they were going down the highway at 70 mph, heading in an undisclosed direction for an unknown amount of time.

“I’d have a better idea if you would tell me where exactly it is we’re going, ma’am.”

There, again. A tick in her jaw so minuscule any normal person would miss it. From someone so controlled, he couldn’t help but wonder if she were doing it consciously.

“One, don’t call me that. Two, I’ll explain everything once we get there. Not a moment sooner.” She spoke clearly, evenly, her Russian accent only serving to make the words seem more authoritative.

If he didn’t have a dominance kink before, he definitely did now.

Which was really inconvenient, considering all of the afore mentioned issues.

“Okay,” Bucky sighs, resting his head back against the headrest in a practiced sign of disinterest. “Fine. I’ll play your game since, clearly, I have no choice. But what am I supposed to call you, considering I don’t even know your name? Or should I just call you _The Widow_?”

“Don’t call me anything,” she answers easily. “In fact, don’t feel that you have to speak at all.”

Bucky’s lip twitches at that, and he decides that maybe it would be best to heed her warning. He was already fairly fucked as it is. The only thing to do now is play it out and wait for his opening.

.

…

.

 

_It had been a long day, to say the least._

 

_The CIA had been working in tandem with the FBI, which was always a nightmare, even if it did mean he got to work with Steve. But it meant something was wrong, that they were chasing something dangerous._

_That something was called The Widow, or at least that’s what the reports said._

 

_A cold-blooded assassin intent on taking out key political figures in a bid to destabilize. To create chaos._

 

_It was unclear who exactly she was working for, though some signs were pointing to Russian intelligence._

 

_Bucky knew it didn’t really matter though; they were all the same in the end. Just another psychopath wreaking havoc on the world._

 

_What he did know was that it was his job to stop her._

 

_It was always his job, tracking down the serial killers and assassins that threatened the country. They all posed their own challenges, but this one involved more late nights and stressful meetings with assholes who didn’t have the slightest clue what they were talking about._

 

_So, as previously mentioned, it had been a long day, and Bucky was ready to go home and sleep for a record-setting 4 hours before dragging his ass back here tomorrow._

 

 _At least, that_ was _the plan, until he reached his car, only to find a woman with beautiful red hair and sharp green eyes waiting for him._

 

 _Bucky’s first thought was,_ woah, _both because he was exhausted, and she really was incredibly attractive. But his second thought was a much more rational,_ what the fuck does this woman want from me?

_His pace slowed, though he didn’t let any other outward signs of caution show. They were in the parking garage of one of the most secure facilities in the world, after all. Though a stranger waiting by his car certainly warranted some hesitation, it was nothing to worry about._

 

_He was, as it would turn out, mistaken._

 

_“Something I can help you with, ma’am?” he asked, taking a page out of Steve’s book and shooting for polite interest._

 

_Her mouth curved up at the corner, forming what Bucky would consider a smile on others, but seemed too… menacing to be called that on her. Her voice was a soft rasp, the accent and grate of it catching him so off guard he almost missed her words._

 

_“No, but there is something I can help you with, James Barnes.”_

 

 _And maybe it was because there was a spike of adrenaline as he finally realized how monumentally_ bad _this was, or maybe the universe just had an exceptional sense of timing, but that was when he felt it._

 

 _He stumbled, catching himself on the trunk of his car, wide eyes staring accusingly up at the woman who had yet to move from the passenger door. “You—did you_ drug _me?_ When? _”_

 

_She shrugged, looking wholly unconcerned by the whole thing. “Just a minor sedative slipped into your coffee. It seemed like the safest option. For both of us. Now, I suggest you relax, Agent Barnes. You’ll be more comfortable if you don’t fight it.”_

 

_“Oh fuck you,” Bucky managed to growl out before the pavement rushed up to meet him._

 

_._

_…_

_._

 

“We’re here,” is the only things she says to him before she opens the door, removing the weapon from his side and stepping out of the vehicle.

Bucky blinks once, watches her stride up to a cabin that looks mostly-intact and enter it without looking back, and he blinks again.

It seems like maybe this is some sort of test, or a trap. To leave him unguarded out here, just expecting that he would follow her in.

His options are admittedly limited. He can only guess at their general location based on the signs they passed on the highway, but they had been traveling on back roads for some time now. This cabin is the only notable thing that they had passed in what felt like hours. He could tryto hotwire the car— _his own fucking car_ —but… well, if there was one thing Bucky was good at, it was making terrible decisions.

He follows her in.

He enters cautiously, taking in the rustic wood paneling and the single couch and table that served as furniture for the entire one-room cabin. There are no pictures on the wall, no TV, no phone, nothing but The Widow, sitting silently at the table as she waits for him.

Bucky whistles lowly, and because he’s an idiot, he opens his mouth. “I thought a high-profile assassin such as yourself would be able to afford a nicer place. Maybe even one with a window, or a one of those vacuums that follows you around. This place really looks like it could use a good cleaning,” he noted, only half-joking as he surveyed the dust covered floor and moth-eaten couch.

Her expression doesn’t change. “I don’t live here.”

He waits for her to elaborate, but after another thirty seconds pass by in complete silence, he clears his throat. “Well then, Miss Widow, why are we here?”

She narrows her eyes but doesn’t bother correcting him again. Instead, she reaches into the pocket of her coat—cream-colored, long, elegant, and likely worth more than his car—and pulls out a flash drive, smacking it down on the table and sliding it forward, not once breaking eye contact.

He hesitates only a moment before striding to the table and taking the seat in front of the flash drive. It seems that he made the right choice, because as soon as he picks up the device to examine it, she finally speaks.

“You’ve been looking into an assassin, one that’s been targeting politicians and world leaders across the globe.”

She’s still watching him, and it’s unsettling, but he ignores it and takes the opportunity to watch _her_ this time. Her face is smooth, expressionless in a way that is clearly practiced. She speaks about the assassin in a way that leads him to believe he was wrong in his assumption that it was her, but… there’s a familiarity there. A connection that goes beyond this flash drive that he holds in his hand. And her eyes, green and hard as stone as they may be, tell him he’s right.

“So you’re not her?” Bucky clarifies, because it really is the most pressing question at the moment. If he’s sitting in a cabin in the woods with the assassin he’s been chasing, it would be nice to know. “You’re not The Widow?”

She hesitates, and her teeth graze her lip, as though she were about to bite it before she caught herself. Not that he was looking at her lips, of course. “I was, once,” she says reluctantly, almost wistfully. “But not anymore. Never again.”

There’s steel in her voice now, and Bucky is having a hard time processing what all of this means, but if he were hard pressed, he’d say he believes her.

“Okay, so I’m gonna need you to tell me where I fit into all of this?” he said, all pretenses of nonchalance dropped as he waved the flash drive at her. “If you’re not the assassin—but _used_ to be one—why am I here? What are you giving me?”

“Everything you want,” the woman says, still betraying nothing. “Information on the organization she works for. Information on _her_. Enough to bring them all down.”

Bucky cocks an eyebrow, because he’s been a soldier and he’s been a spy and he _knows_ when something is too good to be true. And he knows when he’s being used. “All of that, huh? And I’m just supposed to trust you?”

“Of course you don’t have to trust me,” she shoots back, exasperation creeping into her tone for the first time. “All you have to do is look at the files, and—”

“With what computer?” Bucky cuts her off, looking around with wide eyes, taking in the complete lack of any sort of technology. “And why  _me_? I know you want me to think this is just some gift that’s been dropped in my lap, but I know better than accept it without question. So tell me, _sweetheart,_ why the whole show? Why drag me all the way out here just to give me a flash drive containing information on people you used to work for? ”

Her eyes narrow and her nostrils flare and it’s the largest reaction he’s managed to get out of her, and it doesn’t surprise him at all that it’s anger he’s inspired in her. “Do _not_ call me that,” she seethed, venom lacing her tone in a way that made it clear he had struck a nerve.

Bucky would have felt bad, were it not for the previously stated factors.

So he scoffed, shaking his head. “Oh yeah, be angry about _that_. It’s not as though you’ve been kind enough to give me your name, even a fake one. Though that seems par for the course, as you haven’t given me _any_ information.”

The apparently-former assassin seemed to be considering that, a glint of something like admiration sparking in her eyes before she nodded, resolute. “You may call me Natasha.”

The name sounded false on her lips, but he didn’t question it, knowing he had larger concerns. “Natasha it is then. Mind telling me the whole story then, as you’ve dragged me all the way out here and we seem to be lacking in any other entertainment?”

And he couldn’t be sure if it were a trick of the light or if it was genuine, but he could have sworn the corner of her mouth twitched up into the semblance of a smile.

But then she started talking, and neither of them felt like smiling any more.

.

…

.

Bucky learned a lot in the following three hours, enough that he felt like he had to reevaluate everything he thought he knew before he had met Natasha.

She had been taken from her family when she was young, sold off to some Russian intelligence organization called The Red Room. It was an experimental endeavor at first—take 28 young girls and train them to be killers. Simple, and apparently very easy if you got to them young enough. If you were cruel enough, manipulative enough.

But perhaps not perfect, because here was Natasha, telling him everything in a bid to ruin their plans.

“We were bought and traded, once we were old enough,” she was explaining, all cool detachment once again. Describing traumatizing events as though they had happened to someone else. “Kill a mob boss who took more than his fair share here. A politician who asked a few too many questions there. But then a different organization, one I’m sure your familiar with, got involved. And things changed.”

“Hydra,” Bucky says, mind flashing back to a winter spent in Russia not that long ago, one that ended with him losing an arm.

She nods, lips thinning almost imperceptibly, and he can tell she’s making a point _not_ to look at the shining metal of his left arm. He doesn’t comment on it, and she continues. “Yes. They wanted to think bigger. They wanted to create chaos where there was peace, completely destabilize countries where there wasn’t. And they had a plan to do it: a list of fifty people that would completely change the world, so long as they were killed in the right way, at the right time.”

“And The Widow, she’s the one they have carrying this mission out?”

“It’s not just one girl,” Natasha corrects, still watching him carefully for a reaction. “We were all called that—it’s the name of the operation that called for our capture. ‘The Black Widow Program.’ This—this murder spree is just the culmination of their life’s work.”

“So why leave?” Bucky asked, leaning forward with narrowed eyes, suddenly too curious to resist any longer. “Why now? Why turn your back on them and sell them out after all this time? We’ve been chasing these women for almost a year now, thinking it was just one assassin, and now you waltz in, kidnap me, and tell me we’ve got it all wrong? I’m gonna need some sort of reasoning before I believe you.”

He tried to sound apologetic—as apologetic as one can sound after having been abducted and forced to hold conversation with woman who grew up _murdering_ people anyway—but she didn’t seem to buy it. She did, however, nod in acceptance.

“Alright Agent Barnes, fine. Here’s the truth: I chose to come forward now because I have officially exhausted all my other options. As soon as I realized what they were doing—how far they were taking this—I knew that I couldn’t be a part of the end of the world. So I waited, and I bid my time, until _finally_ I was able to make it out. And you were there.”

As surprising as everything Natasha had said in the past hour was, this was the only sentence that elicited a visible reaction from him.

His head snapped as if struck without his permission, and he blinked at her several times before he managed to ask, “Me? Where?”

This time he _knew_ she was smiling, though there was no kindness in the gesture, when she said, “It was D.C. You were following a lead on the investigation and were looking into Senator Cortez as a potential target. You were right, of course, and you managed to mess it up just enough to give me my opening.”

Bucky was quiet as he tried to recall every detail about the week he had spent in D.C., from the meetings with the Senator to the extra security he ordered. And finally, after he thought about the staff he interviewed, he remembered her.

“You were blonde then.”

The smile was wider this time and gave Bucky the impression of a wolf looking at its dinner. “You do remember.”

“He died a week later,” Bucky responds, thinly vailed accusation in his voice.

She had the decency to look contrite, but he knew it was only for his benefit. “It wasn’t me. I left that night—my handlers were panicking, trying to find a new way to circumvent your new security protocols. I was supposed to be seducing you.” She says it with such casualness that Bucky just _knows_ she’s toying with him.

“Wasn’t interested?” he asks dryly, wondering if it would have worked if she had. He remembered her for a reason, after all, and it wasn’t the carefully meek American accent she had used then or her tentative answers to his questions. It was her eyes, intelligent and watchful in a way that gave him pause, and a beauty that made everything else around her seem even more dull than usual.

She smirks then, and he knows she had guessed his train of thought. She is at least kind enough not to comment on it.

“I saw the opportunity for what it was: my out. I followed you to your room, just as I was asked, but instead of knocking on your door and fucking you for answers, I cut back to the staff entrance in the basement and made my way out with everyone else who was leaving for the night. No one suspected anything since I was already on the list of staff members investigated, and my handlers thought I was _handling_ you. By the time they realized I had escaped, it was too late.”

“But not too late to kill Senator Cortez?”

Her face hardens, and if he didn’t know better, he’d say she looked genuinely guilty. “I thought that I could get back there, have some sort of plan in time to stop them from killing him, or anyone else for that matter. I didn’t expect to be replaced so quickly.”

“Bitter?” Bucky couldn’t help but ask, picking up on the sour note in her voice.

She doesn’t respond with words, only narrows her eyes at him in a way that makes him regret having asked. “I’ve spent the last six months trying to gain enough intelligence to turn over to your government, so that it can be your problem now. So that I can live my life the way _I_ want, without The Red Room or Hydra following me wherever I go, looking to collect on their investment. I want out,” she says decisively, and he can’t help but believe her. “I just need you to help me end this so that I can be free of them.”

Bucky nods, thinking on her reasoning and actually finding that it makes sense, at least from her perspective. But he still had one more question. “So, is that why you chose me to be your messenger? Because you knew my name from the investigation?”

Natasha tilts her head from side to side, looking contemplative. “I suppose that was one reason. But I looked into you after that, found out your own history with Hydra, and assumed you were my best bet.”  
  
Bucky raised a brow in question. “Best bet for what?”  
  


“To help me,” she says, clearly hating that she has to say it out loud. “I brought you here because it’s a safe place that neither your bosses nor mine can find us. Because I want to give you this information, and I want to walk out of here of my own free will. And I can’t do that if you take me in.” She leans then, her keen eyes catching him off guard as they practically beg for him to understand. “If I give myself up to your government, even if it is to bring Hydra down, I’ll never have that freedom. You understand that, don’t you?”

Bucky understands a lot of things. He knows what it’s like to be tortured and abused by Hydra. Knows what it is like to have control and free will stripped from you. He had experienced it for nearly five months—he couldn’t imagine enduring it for decades.

He nods. “Alright then. I believe that’s all I need then, Miss Natasha.”

Her smile when she stands is the first genuine one she’s worn in a very long time.

.

…

.

Because they have just the one car— _his_ car—they agree to drive back to the nearest city together. From there, Natasha will board a bus to a destination unknown to him, and Bucky will head back home to give the information to his boss, effectively single-handedly ending this war before it even begins.

At least that _was_ the plan, but then there’s a blockade in the middle of the highway, still miles away from civilization, from any backup that he could call, and the plan is forced to change.

Bucky, behind the wheel this time, slows, thinking over his options as they approach the three armored cars and small army of men that block his path.

Natasha, who is used to thinking on her feet, does not entertain any thoughts of stopping as she stretches her foot over the center console and slams it down onto Bucky’s, pressing the gas pedal down as far as she can.

And Bucky isn’t sure who’s more surprised, him or the Hydra agents he’s suddenly plowing into, but he doesn’t have time to really consider it before his car crashes into two of the SUVs and his face hits the air bag.

After he’s able to gain his bearings enough to move and confirm that he’s alive and mostly unharmed, he sees that Natasha is already out of the car and that there are shots being fired all around him.

He curses, fumbling for his seatbelt and reaching for his gun. He takes cover as soon as he gets his door open, and he raises his gun, ready to start returning fire when suddenly it stops entirely.

He chances a look, ready to duck back down once they start firing again, only to see thirteen bodies lying scattered on the group, and Natasha squaring off against the last man standing. He was large-built, though not quite as bulky as Steve. He was grinning as he advanced upon her slowly, a knife with a blade the size of Bucky’s forearm held threateningly, and though the words were too quiet for him to hear, he was clearly taunting her.

Bucky raises his weapon, ready and willing to contribute even though Natasha had managed to take care of most of it within three minutes, but that turned out to be unnecessary as well.

Natasha flashes a smile that is all teeth and threat before taking a running leap, neatly vaulting over the slash of her target’s knife, and landing on his shoulders. He only has a second to look stunned before she gives a sudden twist of her thighs and snaps his neck with a sharp _crack_ that Bucky can hear from ten feet away.

The man lands in a heap on the ground, but Natasha rolls gracefully off of him before rising to her feet once again. As she takes in the carnage—a car on fire to his left, his car with its crushed front right next to him, a scattering of bodies in various position, all of them dead—he can only watch her with wide, awe-struck eyes.

When she turned her striking green eyes back on him, looking him over for any injury, he can only think of one thing to say.

**“That took my breath away.”**

**“Good. I aim to suffocate.”** Her tone was dry, but her lips curved up into an amused smile before she jerked her chin in the direction of the only car that had survived the attack. “Come on, Agent Barnes. We’ve got a long drive ahead of us if I’m going to take you all the way back to New York.”

“Bucky,” he corrects as she climbs up into the driver’s seat and he takes the passenger without protest. She clearly had a better handle on this than him anyhow.

Her eyes flash to him for only a second as she pulls away from the scene, and he can’t help but be happy that he finally managed to tell her something about himself that she didn’t already know.

She, of course, is not one to be outdone. “My real name is Natalia.”

“Well Natalia,” Bucky says, rolling her name across his tongue like it’s something to be savored, not spoken, “let’s get this thing to my boss so you can finally get a taste of that freedom you want.”

When she smiles at him this time, it actually reaches her eyes.

.

…

.

Natasha surprises him when she does exactly what she said she would and takes him all the way to his office in New York.

He supposes it shouldn’t though: if there’s one thing he’s learned about Natasha—Natalia—it is that she has her own sort of code that she follows. And apparently it includes being honest with him.

The moment she pulls the stolen car into the same parking spot she had abducted him from not even 24 hours ago, she disappears without a word.

Bucky rolls with it, of course, because though she has been an assassin and a killer, she deserves the chance to be better. She had never been given a choice before, and he’d make sure she wasn’t robbed of one now.

So he takes the flash drive with the information into his boss with an abridged version of the events that led to its procurement, and hopes to be allowed to head home for a solid 8 hours of sleep before sitting through the debriefing.

His request is denied, which doesn’t come as a surprise, and he sits through another four hours of mindlessly repetitive questions and answers. They ask him to go over every detail, from his capture to the mess he left on some highway in New Jersey, and he recites the details again and again. They ask for information on Natalia, and he refuses every time.

He’s detached, just going through the motions of this bureaucratic shitshow while the CIA sort through the treasure trove of information that Natalia handed them. Steve notices, catching his eye and giving him a look that’s meant to be reassuring, and he’s not the only one.

Bucky’s boss finally sends him home with an exasperated sigh and an order to report in at 0600 tomorrow, and Bucky barely catches himself before sighing in relief.

It’s short lived.

Steve catches him in the hallway, concern clear in his eyes, and Bucky loves him like a brother, but he just wants to go _home_ goddammit. Seemingly sensing his irritation, Steve holds up a hand in surrender. “I won’t hold you up, God knows you could use a full night’s rest right about now. But I do just have one question.”

Bucky cocks an eyebrow, exhausted but willing to play along for his best friend’s sake. “Oh yeah? And what’s that?”

“Why are you protecting her?”

Bucky blinks in surprise, both at the simplicity of the question and his inability to verbalize his answer.

 _Because she didn’t deserve this. Because she was a weapon in the hands of murderers, but the courts will never see it that way. Because she deserves a chance to be free and learn what it’s like to make decisions yourself. Because the thought of her behind bars for the rest of her life makes me sick_.

So he doesn’t answer, and Steve doesn’t appear to expect him to as he steps to the side and allows Bucky to pass him on his way to the garage.

.

…

.

For the third time in a row, Bucky’s attempt to find a moment of peace to just fucking sleep is thwarted. But the moment his eyes lock on the beautiful red head sitting on his couch, looking as though she belonged there, he knew he wasn’t going to complain.

“Nat,” Bucky blurts out, dropping his keys onto his side table in surprise. “I—What are you doing here?”

Her lips twitch up into a smile, and she doesn’t chastise him for the nickname, only waves a hand in greeting. “Bucky.  I’m waiting for you, of course. What else would I be doing?”

“Oh I don’t know.” Bucky rolls his eyes and leans against his wall, still just watching her watch him. “I thought you’d be half-way to Mexico by now.”

Natalia wrinkles her nose in distaste. “Mexico is a bit too sunny for my taste. I was thinking we should head north, maybe hit Canada and figure out where we go from there.”

It took him an embarrassingly long time to process what she was saying. “We?”

“Well, yes,” she says, looking unsure for the first time since he had met her, and the sight made his heart jump. “I thought—well, I thought maybe you’d like to find out what freedom tastes like too.”

And the second the words left her lips, he knew he did. Because she understood him better than anyone after just a handful of hours spent together. She knew what it was like to feel like you were suffocating under the thumb of another, and she knew what it was like to break free of its hold.

She saw something of her past and her struggles in him, and he finally realized what it was that he saw when he looked into her eyes: his future.

When he takes too long to respond, she shrugs and says, “Besides, I might get bored if you weren’t around to annoy the shit out of me.”

He scoffs, but thinks, _I’ll follow you anywhere,_ and he knows it’s true.

What he says is, “We’ll have to steal a new car.”

Bu she just smiles, all teeth and wicked intent, and he knows she understands anyway.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you liked this! The prompt was sent in by a friend, and based on a real conversation we had, so it was fun incorporating it into this short fic. I also had fun imagining Bucky and Nat in a Killing Eve AU, and would love to write a full fic that more closely followed the show if only I had the time. 
> 
> Thanks for reading!


End file.
